


Crying in Blue

by FunnyLittleOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Poetry, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, visual writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunnyLittleOwl/pseuds/FunnyLittleOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's life lacked of many things. Colour, for instance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crying in Blue

**A** nd he cried himself to sleep that night.  The poor broken man, barely alive, barely functioning; was he even breathing? No, not ever again. Air made its way into his lungs, but there was no point in it, since his other vital organ was doomed to death. Wasn’t it dead already? He remembers very clearly when it stopped beating – it was only at the day before, was it only a day ago? But most importantly – since his heart was gone, why did his lungs insist on keep on breathing?

 _Stop it_ , he said to the dark. There was no point in it. Not ever again. The knife that killed him, which was craved deep, spouting liters of blood all around him, twisting his insides in agonizing pain – that knife was still only a metaphoric one. It hurt just the same. Still he didn’t dare to pray, didn’t beg for help, for there was no God – for his once and only saviour was gone.  **Gone**.

The glimpse of light that woke him up to life every morning, the breeze in the wind of the glorious spring, the storm in the skies of a typical summer day, the fallen angel with the devious smirk, the brilliant human being. His best friend, Him, gone. For never again to be.  _Then what’s the point in it?_ , he asked the dark again. It didn’t reply.

But maybe – maybe – there wasn’t actually a point. Because, of course, some things  _must_  be taken in consideration for the sake of analysis. If the oceans went dry, if the skies got rough, if  **blue**  were  **grey** , what was left in the world? If even  _that_  blue, that blue in His eyes - if it decided it was better do remain closed, hidden, what would be… of him? Of everyone? They were all doomed, now that the blue was gone.

In the whole world, it was all grey, why couldn’t they  _see_? Why were they still smiling? Why was the world still turning? Was it ‘round the sun or was it the other way round?

It just didn’t make sense. Maybe there was not point at all.

Maybe

  
the problem was him. Not Him. Everything he touched, died. Everything He touched was wonderful. He touched John. John wasn’t wonderful. But he would be, for Him. Oh, he would have been. John would have been so much more. But time – merciless, brutal time – thought it wrong.

Or did it? Or was it? Or was he? Was He wrong?

No. Definitely, absolutely not. Perhaps He was the only thing who was ever right. To him. To the world. To everyone. But He was gone. And now it didn’t matter, since the end was near to come, and it would come soon.

 **H** e cried himself to sleep the next night. Food was tasteless, but maybe – maybe – it was because he couldn’t eat it. Well, He wouldn’t. Talking was irrelevant, since there was no one to talk to. What was left to talk? Was there anything left to say? Oh, yes, there was much yet to say. Not to  _them_. Not to any of them – those who were strictly interested in giving condolences, empty, unmeaning words of sorrow. In honour of Him. How ironic. How pointless.  _They_  were all around, but there was no one. Not a single one.

No one to cling to. No one to laugh with. No one to live for.

 

No God, no light.

The pain spread through his body like a disease, a terminal one, now that his limp wasn’t psychosomatic anymore. It was back, it was strong and it was paralyzing. It was also here to stay forever. But no matter. Walking was actually as irrelevant as talking. As irrelevant as everything, as relevant as nothing at all.

Looking at him, he was the exact picture of the lost man sent home almost two years ago now. But that man was only  _lost_. This man will never be whole again. This man is  _broken_ in a million pieces of shattered glass. And some pieces are never to be  _found_  again.

 

Nothing.

He felt nothing.

Nothing was all that happened.

The world in a million shades of grey.

 

 **A** nd he cried himself to sleep again.

 _Blue_  were His eyes, and blue was also the colour of his favourite piece of clothing. Though blue was  _everywhere_  at once, blue was never how He made him feel. With him, he felt  **vibrant**. He felt every colour like he was inside a  **kaleidoscope**. Like he was under a  **microscope**. Like he was staring at the  **stars** , at the infinite universe and its  **infinite**  colours. Like the glorious  **rainbow**. Like the  **sunset**. He felt beautiful – and he was.  _He_  was.

Unlike children’s drawing representations, tears are not blue. Tears have no colour at all – they’re not even grey. They’re just there, wet. Wet is not even a colour. Wet is more like a state of mind, a life style; at least it was now for him. Wet is his face and so are his eyes. Wet is his tea, wet was the Pool; wet reminds him of chlorine and the time he had  _almost_ lost Him. Before he lost Him nonetheless – this time for good.

Wet is also His scarf.

It kept His scent, and John wanted to bottle it. Despite his efforts, it was discovered that it wasn’t possible. That it would wear off. It was already wearing off.

 _Stay,_  he ordered to the dark, sobbing. It didn’t obey.

John captured the scent with his nostrils and guarded it within. It was safer that way. And that was how he went to sleep that night, clinging to the scarf like it was a living thing, sobbing desperately like he wanted to be inanimate as well.

**Days passed.**

The world as he knew it didn’t end, but his world as he grew used to living he barely recognized anymore.

Now, though, he knew what he wanted to say. What was left to say. It made him calmer in a way, lighter; all he had to do was to reunite all that still made sense and turn it into words. To make it real. What still made sense was simple, oh, such a simple thought, and he couldn’t understand why he hadn't thought of this before. Why he never thought of this in words.

It was so easy.

And so was his plan.

Plan of which was to be executed soon enough.

He didn’t cry himself to sleep in that insightful lonely night. He had a goal. He clutched the scarf tighter to his chest.

 _Soon_ , he confessed to the dark. It seemed to agree.  


**H** e needed paper. He thought about writing a post in his blog, but that was a bit too much. What he was about to do was supposed to be easy, simple, discreet. It was a thing no one should know/read/see but Him.  **Paper and ink**. A simple pen would do just fine.

Oh, how good it felt – having something to look forward to again. Even knowing it wouldn’t last long, but still it was good, still something worth walking and eating and talking for.

It was the best idea he had in ages. And ironically enough, it made him feel  _so_ alive despite the grey.

Would it be best if his end was wet or if it was blue? It could be both. It could be both and it wouldn’t even smell of chlorine.

It would taste like salt. It would be at sunset. It was set.

John wore the scarf to go to work that day.

 **T** he train drove him far away, further into the country, closer into the sea. Deep, blue ocean, like the Eyes he was about to see once more. Would it be once more or would it be the last -  _the last time_? Either way, of one thing he was certain – he would see them again, no matter what.

He said goodbye to the city and it was raining when he left. He wouldn’t miss it. London has always been grey, come to that. No more grey, not anymore.

 

He took nothing with him but the scarf – and the paper – and said to Mrs Hudson he would be right back for supper. Mycroft tried to contact him, but he didn’t give him the chance. No one knew what he was about to do and it was better that way.

Suddenly, from the ~ _waves~_  of nothingness, he felt something different, colourful.  _Relief._  Again, that was sure to be a good idea if that was how it made him feel.

Relief was a tiny bit like blue. He welcomed the blue.

 

When he found himself again, he was standing in the deserted beach, surrounded by cold sand under his bare feet, note closed in his left hand. It was windy and the sun was already down. Pity. He was looking forward to a bit of colour, and now orange wasn’t even what he got.

 

 _Pointless_ , he had to remind himself.

 

He stepped forward into the water and sighed rather tired. It was absurdly cold and he just wanted to end it soon.

 

He said nothing as he dropped the note and watched it drift away into the bottom of the sea. If his words would die with him, they should as well be close.

He stared at his final destination and wondered if that was really how things were supposed to be. Of course it wasn’t – that was exactly why he was doing it. He wasn’t supposed to be here, he was supposed to be with Him, whatever He went; John would follow. And now  
                                                  he  
                                                       was  
                                                              following.

  
  
_Right. It can’t be that hard._

If anything was to stand in his way, now would be the last moment to interfere. Last chance to anything stay in the way between him and his wet, blue fate. He heard something far from the beach, but didn’t dare to look. That was it.

 _Coming_ , he said to the water.

He started to walk, always forward, ignoring the strong ~ _waves~_  trying to bring him back to the sand, cold water covering his thighs, and suddenly his mind was empty. He would drown in a few moments and it was fine. It was more than fine – it was perfect.

But before he had the chance to dive and give in to his luck, he felt something pulling him the other way round, making him fall on his back, he felt two long arms supporting his weight, sprawled possessively across his waist, holding him for dear life.

For a second of absolute confusion, John genuinely thought he was being attacked by some kind of aquatic animal and considered that death by octopus was definitely  _not_  how he wanted to go, that it would ruin everything, and he tried to fight back.

But then he felt the slim, soaked body curved behind him, a nose nuzzling his neck, dark hair brushing his cheek, and thought,  _It can’t be_.

“Don’t you dare,” the Impossible breathed desperately in his ear, tightening his embrace around him like he wanted them to fuse into one.

Oh, that  _voice_. Was he dead already? Was he? It was still so grey, it just wasn’t right. He went silent for a few minutes, trying to digest what was really happening in the strangest twilight the world has ever experienced. The hold didn’t let go of him even for a second and that made him think more clearly, somehow.

“Perfect timing, as usual,” was all he could reply.

“You are a complete idiot,” said He, disapproving.

“And you are a fucking bastard,” said him, unbelieving.

“How could you possibly…  _John_ ,” He moaned his name in frustration, voice still very low, very hoarse, like he couldn’t believe what he was just forced to stop. His lips were now incredibly close to his jaw, so He sighed dramatically there. John shivered, feeling a bit warmer all over, so he  _had,_  he just  _had_ to turn a little bit and  _see_. That was at the same moment as He tried to turn him around to stare at him, using both hands to cup his face. The result was a double effort to the movement, and John had himself looking  _right_ into the blue, worried, damned  _close_  eyes.

_Sherlock._

He felt weak and almost fell to his knees, leg not responding well to the situation, but Sherlock kept him standing.

As usual.

“I won’t let go,” he said what sounded like a promise, and tightened his hands around him such as to prove his point.

Oh,  _point._  So there  _was_  a point.

John wanted to laugh manically at that, but just couldn’t find the strength to it, so he kept staring, numb.

“What was written in there?” Sherlock asked, and he was serious. “The note.”

Water was dropping down his chin, his curls were hanging at the sides of his face, his white shirt impossibly wet, all blue eyes and beautiful. God, He was so  _beautiful_.

His expression changed once John didn’t answer; maybe he thought John was so shocked he lost the ability to speak, paralysed in time and space. But what he thought didn’t matter, since he looked

so worried so guilty so relieved so impossible so amazing so alive  _oh_ alive so brilliant so fantastic so bright so reliable so sincere so straightforward so bitter so crazy so stubborn so important so talented so intelligent so real so idiotic so bored so nasty so mysterious so obnoxious so lonely so beautiful and so _, so_  Sherlock

John felt wonderful.

“This,” he said matter-of-factly as he descended his lips towards the insufferable man, not kissing, just touching, smacking their faces together, using his hands to pull Sherlock’s hair and drag him even closer, Sherlock’s surprised reaction melting due to the overwhelming feeling that consumed them both, glad to be  _together_ , happy to be  _alive,_  thankful for it being  _true._

John hasn’t felt like this forever, and his sudden enthusiasm knocked them down to the water, making loud splash noises around the two, wetting now also his face – for the first time in a long while not consequence of crying.

He opened his eyes and saw  ** _all_   _blue_**.

 _Wonderful_ , he may or may not have said it out loud. Sherlock smiled anyway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published at http://dontmindthis.livejournal.com/913.html


End file.
